


Recall

by oh_my_stars_and_sky



Series: Deleted Files [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dark, Devotion, Drug Use, Drugs, Kinda telepathy, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Relapse, Romance, happy ending I promise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-24
Updated: 2016-01-08
Packaged: 2018-04-23 03:20:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4861064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_my_stars_and_sky/pseuds/oh_my_stars_and_sky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock further experiments in the telepathic  connection he shares with John. A discovery is made. But said discovery has unforseen repercussions that lead to an out of control downward spiral that tests and, in the end, strengthens the will and love of both parties.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shetbert and experiments

**Author's Note:**

> I'm baaack! So this part of the series follows my own plot instead of the canon plot, and is a bit darker than the other one, I think. If you haven't read Deleted files, most of this won't make sense, so you should probably go check that out first.
> 
> Thank you, and enjoy!!

October came with cases, and Sherlock turned down every single one of them, on the grounds that he was "incredibly busy right now, Gilbert, please do get out of my flat". And he was indeed busy.

He'd stolen( or persuaded Molly to give him, which essentially amounted to the same thing) some sort of a tool for measuring brain activity, and he'd been conducting tests on a bemused John and himself in pursuit of the reason for their seemingly telepathic connection. John, privately, thought that there probably wasn't a scientific explanation out there, but he kept this to himself because, frankly, Sherlock's search for a reason was keeping him in the flat and intellectually content, and while perhaps it was a bit selfish John very much liked having Sherlock there  
always  
always  
always  
because John still had dreams in which he woke up in the morning and the other side of the bed was cold, in which he made tea for only one, in which there were no songs or connections or if there had been they were all severed and gone and when he woke up from these dreams and found the other side of the bed very much warm and sprawled out like a starfish, sometimes he would cry, and sometimes he would laugh, but he would never wake Sherlock if he could help it, he only snuggled back down into his technicolor man's warmth. 

So John didn't mind the neurotransmitter experiments because they kept Sherlock home, and home is where he belonged.

They were all inconclusive, anyhow.

No anomalies, no spikes or lulls, no mirrored paths.

Sherlock had proclaimed it Christmas many times. 

The only experiment in which anything of import was discovered wouldn't happen until mid November, after Sherlock had, at John's instance, reluctantly returned the neurotransmitter, having done all he could think of with it pertaining to their connection.

It was late afternoon on a Saturday, and John was puttering about the kitchen, trying to decide whether dinner would consist of chinese takeaway or indian, when Sherlock bounded through the door like a puppy, all unbridled energy and yet somehow still graceful.

"John, come on, I've an idea, oh, I've got it this time, we've been going about this all wrong, John, it's US, it's always been us, that's where the answers are, come on now, don't be slow, best do this in the sitting room, comfort is imperative for a successful experiment!"

"Alright,alright" John cut him off with a chuckle, allowing himself to be cajoled into the sitting room and onto the sofa.

"Well." He said expectantly, as Sherlock paced a bit, back and forth behind the couch, his blue dressing gown billowing with his sharp turns. At John's voice he stilled, suddenly, and locked his glowing technicolor eyes with John's own.

"Ah. Yes. Well. Well, the idea is, this thing we have is unheard of. It's unprecedented, and it appears to be unmeasurable, but the idea is to experiment with the flow of thoughts. Find the absolute limit of where we can take this, and that, is the only way we'll get any closer to an answer." 

Purposefully, he flipped himself over the back of the sofa so he was sitting beside John. 

"We'll start simple. What's the most comfortable position for you to receive deleted information?" He asked, his eyes burning with mischief and ideas. John found that it didn't matter how many times he was fixed with that piercing gaze, he always felt his heart quicken, his breath catch, and God, if he snuck a glance down to those pale pink lips, so infinitely begging to be shut up with a kiss, the things it did to him-

"John,answer my question. I am going to need your entire attention for this experiment to go smoothly." Sherlock chastised lightly in his deep baritone tones.

"Believe me, you have it." John murmured in reply, not bothering to conceal his rather obvious affections. 

"Crass, John. Plenty of time for that later, believe me. But now, the question, if you please." Sherlock replied, leaning in close.

John closed his eyes.  
"When you press your forehead to mine," John admitted in a whisper, "it doesn't... It doesn't hurt then, at all, obviously, but it doesn't just not hurt, it feels...it feels like summer, sort of, like heat, like warmth, like laughter feels in your throat but a million times more and everywhere...it feels...it feels"

"It feels like the most beautiful notes of a violin prelude in b major, like for a moment, we are completely and utterly one," Sherlock finishes for him, his voice breathless and shy and reverent, as if he hadn't imagined it would feel the same for John.

And then suddenly the gap closes, and Sherlock's forehead is pressed to John's, and it feels like ecstasy, and he lets the words transfer tantalizingly slowly, and somehow his arms wind around John's waist, and John's were fisted in Sherlock's button down, and when it's over John realizes it's only a recipe for sherbert but that doesn't matter, because it was Sherlock's and now it was his and he slumps down, his head on Sherlock's shoulder, his eyes still closed, as Sherlock asks questions.

"You received the thought successfully, yes?"

"Mhm", John responds, still savoring the tingling of new words.

" now, lets try something new. You try and delete something."

John cracked an eyelid. "What?"

"Go on," John sat up fully, looking somewhat incredulously at Sherlock.

"I don't think it works that way, Sherlock."he replied, carefully

" Experimentation, John, won't know until you try."

"Fine" John straddled Sherlock this time, because if the bastard wanted to continue experimenting as opposed to having sex which was CLEARLY what they should be doing right now, he might as well be made aware of it. John pressed his forehead down to Sherlock's, and tried. He really did. He made a valiant effort. But it was as he had said; it simply didn't work that way.

"Sherlock", he said through gritted teeth after a good ten minutes, " This isn't working."

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Quite right. Um. Perhaps a different approach. Just...just relax. I'm going to try something."

And then, suddenly there was a tingling in John's head, like tendrils reaching forward, and suddenly something was empty. There was a...void. The sherbet recipe, which he knew had been there, was gone. He could remember it being there, but he couldn't remember it itself at all.

He shivered, and choked. He opened his eyes, looking shaken. Sherlock looked conflicted between triumphant and stricken.

"I can get them back." He whispered, in horror and in awe.

John pressed his lips roughly to Sherlock's.

"Please. Please don't."


	2. Herbal Tea and Descent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's experiment has unexpected side effects.

Mrs. Hudson's mobility was declining. Not any more than it should have been, she was getting old and she knew it, but it was really quite bothersome. Walking places was, of course, out of the question, given her hip, and driving had begun to bother her eyes, and public transit bothered both. She didn't trust cabbies since the whole cabbie serial killer incident.And there was this lovely little cafe cross town she'd simply fallen in love with, and hated not being able to get there.

So she took to having John bring her, so she could get her herbal tea, which she insisted was just heavenly, and flirt with the barista, an exotic young man, tall with dark hair and chocolate eyes and olive skin and an accent that Mrs.Hudson would not shut up about.

So it was not out of the ordinary that she ask John to take her over one November morning. He said his farewells to Sherlock, who was beant laboriously over the kitchen table over some experiment, and drove Ms.Hudson over to her cafe. The ride over was uneventful.

Pleasant, even. 

Mrs.Hudson chatted happily about her sister and her knitting and her herbal soothers, and the traffic wasn't bad, and the sky was not overcast. The air was crisp, but not hostile, and not aggressively cold.

It was a beautiful day, really.

They arrived at the cafe at half past nine or so, and John elected to venture inside with Mrs.Hudson, as opposed to go to the park or go for a walk as he usually did. Mrs.Hudson, for her part, was gleefully delighted, declaring her could finally meet her exotic man.

John rolled his eyes and smiled as he allowed himself to be cajoled into the small,sweet smelling storefront. 

The walls were a warm, sunset orange hue, and the air was filled with the aromas of pastries and dark coffee, dancing lazily through the cozy building. There were several round off white tables, some occupied, some not, and the counter was a soft, light wood.

Behind the counter stood a lanky man with thick, dark hair and an attractive cowlick in the front. His skin was olive and tan, the sort of shade that fit right into the color scheme of the the cafe.His eyes were painted in deep, warm, chocolate tones, and he had dark stubble peeking around his chin.He wore a flannel button down under a plain, brown apron.

He smiled a sort of smile the made John uneasy when he saw Mrs.Hudson, beaconing her over and getting her her usual. 

But John was quickly distracted from whatever was unsettling about the man behind the counter because he was suddenly stuck with a piercing pain in his head. It felt as though every fiber of his brain was trying to squeeze into a matchbox, and was being stabbed, and thrown, and hung upside down, and. Well. And shot. And he should know, he knew what that felt like, but he had a strong composure, John did, and he didn't want to worry Mrs.Hudson, so he called something about going for a drive and stumbled for the door, the pain nearly blinding him.

He was struggling down the street towards the car when the pain suddenly abated. But he almost wished it would come back, because what followed it was so, so, so much worse. 

An emptiness. A. A blankness. He knew that feeling, something was gone, like the sherbert recipe, but he couldn't figure out what,because he hadn't been holding onto it like he had the sherbet recipe, and he panicked. He could feel his heartbeat, could feel every breath he took as he dashed to the car, got in, and sped for home as fast as he could.

In the door with shaking hands, up the stairs with shaking legs, through the second door with watering eyes.

"Sherlock!" He called, his voice coarse and rough with emotion.

Sherlock was sitting on the sofa, his face betraying his shock. 

John lost it. Throwing himself at the technicolor man before him, he buried his head deep into the crook of his neck and cried. John Watson was not a man who cried often; but when he did, as on that beautiful and horrible day in November, he cried all the tears he could hold in his eyes.

"Sherlock, I told you, I told you not to do it, why'd you do it, please Sherlock, tell me it wasn't on purpose, Sherlock it was horrible, it hurt, you can't, you mustn't, please, damnit, I love you, you git-" he managed between sobs, and Sherlock stroked his hair comfortingly, the expression on his face unchanging, his gaze fixed on a point on the wall.

Finally, after what was an age in ten minutes, John sat up in Sherlock's lap, his tears subsiding.

"Why?" He asked in a small voice.

"I-that is, I" Sherlock began, but he could not seem to find the words. He dropped his gaze away from John, anywhere but John, but John caught his face in his hands and met his eyes, soothing them with his own.

It's okay, his eyes said. Just tell me.

"It wasn't really my decision. I was rereading an old text, and it made mention of lizard blood, and then..." Sherlock's lip began to quiver "all of this information came just. Flooding back. And,and I knew what had happened, and I, I"

"Shh." Said John, still cupping his face," It's okay"

"What about when it happens again, John?" Sherlock burst out, breaking free of his hands and sitting up pin straight."Because it will, if today is any indication. What then?"

"I...I don't know. We'll figure it out,Sherlock, we always do. I promise."

Sherlock only looked at him mournfully.

Rather suddenly, John's phone rang.   
Without breaking eye contact with Sherlock, he answered. 

"John, young man, you run out on me at my cafe, and now you leave me stranded?"

"Sorry, sorry Mrs.Hudson, I'll be right over."

John hung up the phone, pocketed it and leaned closer into Sherlock, so their noses were almost touching.

"Listen, love, it'll all be fine. I promise. You want to come with me to pick up Mrs.Hudson?"

Sherlock only looked at him mournfully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay I'm so glad II finally got this chapter to a good place!  
> I hope you guys like.:)
> 
> Next chapter should be up soon.
> 
> Comments and kudos light up my life ;)
> 
> Thank all you lovely people for reading!!


	3. Foreboding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finds what might be a solution.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ack, okay, so this is way late, and I'm sorry, December was a mess, but I have not forgotten this story, don't worry :) hopefully I'll be posting with more frequency now.
> 
> With that, enjoy

Sherlock hadn’t moved from his spot on the sofa for nearly twenty-four hours. He had not even fully acknowledged John’s return from his run to pick up Mrs.Hudson, or John’s attempt to ask him if he wanted dinner, or John’s plea for him to come to bed and sleep. Eventually John had given up on the assumption that Sherlock was in his mind palace, which was not entirely inaccurate; Sherlock had been in his mind palace, for a moment or two, but the answer Sherlock was looking for was so blatanly obvious he didnt need his mind palace to find it.

There was only one time in his life where he hadn’t been able to delete his thoughts.  
That had been when he had been dependant almost entirely on cocaine.

If he couldn’t delete thoughts, it stands to reason he wouldn’t have been able to get them back either.  
It was not a particularly difficult conclusion to come to, what he had to do. 

His retrieval of his thoughts hurts John.

John is not to be hurt at any costs.

He couldn’t control whether or not he retrieved his thoughts, but with cocaine he could temporarily obstruct the connection entirely.

The only trouble was that that would hurt John as well.

The question really was which would hurt John more, and that question kept Sherlock stone still in concentration on the sofa in the sitting room late into the night and far into the next day.

......................

Sherlock still wasn’t taking on cases, but he was no longer a fixture in the flat, which bothered John. He was always rather dissmissive of John’s questions as to where he’d been, perferring instead to kiss him silent and then demand tea, which was all well and good and Sherlock-ey, but John was still worried. It seemed like an awful lot of time to be spending pestering Molly or checking up on the Homeless network, and he never invited John out with him.

Which was odd, if not troubling.

It was particularly troubling in light of the fact that Sherlock was hardly deleting anymore.

John had a nagging fear the whole thing had to do with the fact that Sherlock seemed to be trying to find a way to stopper the retrieval of his memories, and it appeared he was being somewhat successful in his endeavor; he had only accidentily retrieved them twice in the past two weeks. But given the rest of the circumstances present, John was more than worried as to what Sherlock had been getting up to.

But John knew Sherlock perhaps better than anyone, and given that he knew that there was no use in asking or pressing the issue until Sherlock wanted to tell him. 

And Sherlock most certainly did not want to tell him.

So John accepted his kisses gladly, and made him tea, and let him leave.

So John went to his job at the clinic, and came home to rooms that were once again often empty, and tried his best to ignore the panic that was slowly beginning to bubble in his gut.

And when Sherlock was home, John kissed his lips with newfound vigor of a man trying to memorize a taste that is constantly changing.

And on the nights when Sherlock found his way to their bed, John held him tightly with the renewed fear of a man who was painfully aware that all days were numbered days.

And John waited. 

...............................................

It hadn’t been particularly challenging for Sherlock to get his hands on some of what he needed; after all, he had his homeless network. As it turned out, in something that might resemble irony, the difficult part was actually shooting up. It was just as he remembered it, the buzz, the relief, but there was a sense of guilt that accompanied it now, a sort of shame that he couldn’t seem to shake.

He knew it was ridiculous, of course. 

He was doing this for John, this was the only way to help John until they figured out some other way to fix things.

And yet even with this knowledge it was with hesitancy and doubt that he took up his syringe after John had left for work. 

It was a damn good job he was good at hiding, at lying, because the very sight of John made him feel so, so   
unclean.

He was either hurting his John, or he was shooting up.

And there was a time in his life when he wouldn’t give a damn, when he probably wouldn’t even realize he was hurting people, let alone care, because caring was not an advantage and part of him still believed that, part of him was incredulous at the stupid qualms he was now facing.   
But another part of him, a larger part, just wanted to keep John safe, and happy, and he wasn’t quite sure how to do that anymore. 

But the closest he could come to an answer was a needle in his arm every morning and a lot of time spent avoiding John’s eyes. 

\-----------------------------

“You know, Martha, there’s really no need for you to keep calling up that young man to pick you up; you always come ‘round near the end of my shift, I can just drive you. It’s getting awful cold and dreary out.” 

Mrs.Hudson smiled into her blueberry herbal tea, looking up from where she sat to the tan young man before you.

“Would you? That is so kind, thank you so much. I do hate to worry John so, especially with how his boy has been behaving lately.”

“Of course, Martha, any time.”

And so in a minute, when another young man in an apron came behind the counter,   
Mrs.Hudson left her little cafe with her barista and got into his car.

“And what did you say your address was, Martha?”

“221 Baker street, dear, and again, I can’t thank you enough. It's a good job we’ve still got nice young men like you in this world.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear. Poor loves. What's a girl to do.
> 
> This chapter marks the turn of this story into a darker place, but I promise there is a happy ending!
> 
> Kudos and comments are literally the best things in the world!
> 
> Thank all you lovely people for reading!! :)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you thank you thank you SO much for reading!! 
> 
> All my love as always, and comments and kudos light up my days.
> 
> Next chapter should be up soon.


End file.
